


The Setting Sun on Paris

by Catopotato_22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Paris, Artist Castiel (Supernatural), Binge Drinking, Castiel can speak french, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Dean Winchester Has a Language Kink, Dean Winchester can Dance, Dean smokes and drinks a bit too much, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff, M/M, Pick-Up Lines, Writer Dean Winchester, gilda is there for like 5 seconds, like 6 drinks in a row
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catopotato_22/pseuds/Catopotato_22
Summary: 1926, Paris, France.The City of Lights is in Les Années Folles, or "The Crazy Years" as artists, writers, musicians, dancers, and fashion designers flock to its streets for inspiration and success. While the Fitzgeralds had their parties and Josephine Baker danced the Charleston across Paris, other expatriates were less successful.Dean Winchester recently moved into a small apartment in Paris, hoping to escape writer's block. Attending a party with a friend, he meets an artist named Castiel Novak, who is struggling for a muse. Paris is always a good idea.





	1. Prohibition and Writer's Block Make Me Leave the Country

**Author's Note:**

> I suggest listening to Frenchy Jazz like the soundtrack of Midnight in Paris

I pulled the gate shut behind me as I entered the small courtyard. It was more of a small square of concrete floor that was uncovered by apartments and was surrounded by walls. Staring up at the sky I saw clotheslines connecting the sides of the court, lacing from window to window in a mesh of drying clothes. I glanced at the butcher shop with a chipped yellow sign painted on the wall, thinking how I still hadn't gotten used to the sight of cooked ducks hanging in the window. The floor had a puddle of summer rain around the drain, which was now growing as it began to drizzle. I turned up the narrow and creaky staircase that wound around the courtyard so small it hardly counted as a courtyard. Unlocking the front door of my new apartment, I stepped inside. Hanging up my hat and coat as I went in, I sat at my desk for a minute. I looked around the room, a few boxes were left to unpack, but for now, I had to write. Nothing came to me. I moved to Paris to write my novel, but I wasn't getting anything. I am a sorry son of a bitch, I thought to myself. I'm in the most beautiful place in the world with beautiful people, beautiful music, and I can't think of a single word to write. I put my hat back on and went outside. I creaked past my neighbor's place, and the landlady leaned out the window.  
"Bonjour, Dean," She said cheerfully in a thick French accent. "Don't forget to stay dry!"  
"Thanks, Mrs. Moreau, I won't forget. À beintôt."  
"Your French is getting better, l' Américain!" She called after me.  
I rounded the corner at a strolling pace, taking in the city of Paris in all its glory, rainy and picturesque, as it should be. I paused at a newsstand to glance at the papers. Moving down the street, I stared at cafés on the street and pharmacists' signs. I stopped at a café and got a seat outside, under the awning.  
"Un café au lait, s'il vous plaît," I sat at a table on the street, watching the people stroll by.  
Still, nothing came to me. I was in a place where thousands of writers have gotten inspiration, and I had nothing. I had finished my coffee and paid, so I began to walk around again. Soon I realized the ideas wouldn't just come if I walked around all night.  
I sat in my apartment by the telephone.  
"Charlie, it's Dean Winchester. I'm in Paris, I have been for a while, I mean, I live there, but anyways, what are you doing tonight?" I started when Charlie picked up the phone.  
"Well shit, Dean, why didn't you tell me you were in Paris? I'm going to a party tonight, you should come!" She said cheerfully.  
"Oh I don't know, I'd feel like I'm an unwanted guest," I refused.  
"Nonsense! Everyone is welcome, it's a big party, and you'd better be there, instead of moping at home like a sad sack.

\---

I walked through the party, warm light falling on faces of partygoers, some covered in feathers, jewels, and lace, others in formal attire, some painted like jesters and clowns. I know my brother would hate the circus part of the party, but he and his clown fear were still living at home in Kansas with Dad.  
Charlie was off talking to Gilda, a dancer she liked. She gave me a smile, and I gave her a thumbs up, and she ran off with Gilda, the fringe on their party dresses swished around their knees. So I stood on my own, drink in hand. I tapped my feet to the music and lit a cigarette. The song ended and the piano player started to play the opening notes of a new song  
"Birds do it, bees do it," the singer's words flowed.  
I glanced around the room to look at the people when someone caught my eye.  
"Even educated fleas do it."  
An attractive man at the bar with messy hair, blue eyes, a 5 o'clock shadow and a trench coat. I watched him out of the corner of my eye.  
"Let's do it, let's fall in love."  
I shifted in my seat, then ordered a few more drinks until I was half-seas over. The romantic, twanging, swinging sound of jazz guitars and pianos filled the room.  The saxophone warbled mournfully as I finished a third, possibly sixth drink. The man sat on a bar stool a few seats away. I started to wave over the bartender for another, and then he spoke to me.  
"Vous ne voudrez peut-être pas en commander un autre. Vous êtes très ivre et il est tard," he said with a faint American lilt in his otherwise convincing French accent.  
"M' French's not good, you speak English?" I slurred, leaning towards him drunkenly.  
"I said, you might not want to order another. You're very drunk, and it's late."  
"No, I'm fine, shoul' get home though." I stood up, swaying slightly.  
I lost my balance slightly, and the man in the coat caught me.  
"I don't think you're sober enough to get home on your own." he gave me a worried look and threw my arm over his shoulder, supporting my weight. "I'll walk you home."  
"Nah, s'okay. M'friend Charlie can walk with me. She's the redhead." He carried me around to every red-haired girl in the bar until we found Charlie.  
She broke away from a conversation with Gilda when the man tapped her on the shoulder, carrying me, red-faced, sweaty and drunk.  
I staggered down the cobblestone roads, blissfully unaware of the rain, leaning into Charlie, then a door, then hanging onto a streetlamp for dear life. Swinging around it and hooking my leg around like a terribly trained and drunken pole dancer, I smiled at Charlie.  
She shook her head and laughed. "You're not a very good dancer when you're drunk."  
"Why not?" I mock-pouted as I unwound from the pole.  
"You've got to have this little thing called balance."  
"I got balance!" I showed off as I walked down the street like I tightrope walker. "See?" I spun around and tripped.  
We walked down the street, joking until I stumbled into the little courtyard and up the stairs to my apartment, where I slept off the excessive drinks I'd had.

\---

I regret last night. Hangovers are a bitch. I also regret never asking that guy what his name was. I sure was stuck on him though. I dragged my feet out of bed and out into the hallway. I passed a mirror, turned to my reflection and saw that I looked like a scruffy piece of shit. I felt like it too. I shut the curtains, hiding the scenic view of Parisian streets. The city of lights was too bright, I grumbled, rubbing my temples. I shuffled over to the counter and opened a beer. Hair of dog, right?  
Wrong. I clung to the toilet bowl as I puked out my hangover "cure"


	2. I Thought I Was Saying Hello, but I Was Very Wrong.

A few weeks later, when hangovers were a distant memory, I went out to another party with Charlie. We stopped at this swanky old gin mill near Moulin Rouge. I went to go get drinks when I saw him. The man in the trench coat. I unconsciously smoothed out a wrinkle in my shirt. I took a breath and walked up to him. Charlie taught me a few more ways to start a conversation, and I hoped my French would be better than last time. I couldn't understand them, but they seemed to make sense.  
"Je rêve de tremper ma baguette dans ta soupe."  
"Eh bien, c'était étonnamment sexuel pour un sujet de conversation. Qui vous a appris à parler comme ça, de toute façon? Je devrais te laver la bouche avec du savon. sexy mais brutale."  
"Sorry, my French is still terrible and I have no idea what either of us is saying," I confessed sheepishly.  
"I thought so. You said some stuff about soaking bread in soup, that was loaded with sexual innuendo. I figured you had no clue what you were saying, or you were horrible at pickup lines."  
"Damn it, Charlie." I cursed under my breath, glaring at her.  
She waved and smiled impishly and I rolled my eyes at her. I turned back to the man. "I really only know enough to get by, and she takes full advantage of that."  
"I could teach you some. I've been living here long enough to get pretty much fluent."  
"Well first, teach me your name. I'm Dean Winchester."  
"I'm Castiel Novak." I shook his hand.  
"So Castiel, what do you do?"  
"I'm an artist. Or, I'm trying to be. I haven't really found my next inspiration, and without having any art to make, I'm not exactly an artist."  
"I know the feeling. I'm trying to write a novel, but I think I've hit the biggest writers' block of 1926."  
"Les Années Folles- The Crazy Years," He translated, "are hitting a low point for us."  
"You're goddamn right, Cas. If only we had some friggin' inspiration."  
"I find the streets are quite nice this time of night, all lit up." He said dreamily. "Would you like to walk with me?"  
I glanced at Charlie, who gave a thumbs up.  
"Sure, lemme get my coat." My heart fluttered with excitement.  
I put on my coat and hat as we headed for the door. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, I offered one to Cas. He took it and patted his pockets.  
"Need a light?" I asked, pulling out my silver lighter.  
"Yes, thank you." I lit his cigarette for him and watched as it hung loosely from his lips. A thread of smoke coiled in the night air. Streetlights shimmered on rain-slick streets, the reflections shone with a halo like the city of Paris had foxglove running through its streets, and the whole world was hallucinating rings of light. A car's headlights shone behind Cas, giving him a halo of his own for a minute, then sputtering by, sending gutter water flying onto the sidewalk.  
"Oh, Cas your coat, it's all wet, here, take mine."  
"Dean, I'm fine, it's just a splash."  
"You could catch a cold! You could get sick and die." He gave a resigned sigh and took off his trench coat. I draped my jacket over his shoulders like a cape and carried his coat over my arm like a towel.  
"You worry too much about others, but not enough about yourself." He said thoughtfully.  
"The hell's that supposed to mean?"  
"You're worried I'll get a cold and die from being splashed with water, but binge-drink at parties without a thought of yourself."  
"I don't know, I care about people!"  
"You hardly know me, and you worry like an overbearing mother. You've known yourself your entire life- if that makes any sense. You care about a stranger more than yourself."  
"I guess I just like you more than I like me. You dragged me around a bar until you found the right redhead, and wouldn't let me go home alone, so I guess I just owe you."  
He sat down on the bench by the side of the street.  
"It was nothing, you don't owe me."  
I sat down next to him. "It was a lot of effort for a stranger. But I think _you_ owe _me_ something. You said something about teaching me French."  
"Ah, yes. Well, I say we start with the pickup lines since you need a lot of improvement there."  
"What? I do fine when it comes to pickup lines."  
"Really? Tell me your best line." He challenged.  
"Okay, um, did you sit in a pile of sugar? 'Cause you have a pretty sweet ass."  
He sighed, grabbed my hand and led me down the street.  
"We're going to my place, we have work to do."  
"Does that mean my line was good?"  
"Not in the slightest. I'm coaching you in flirting."


	3. In Which I Learn How To Flirt

Castiel's place was littered with brushes, palettes, pencils, and paints. Canvases hung on nearly every surface, and every desk and table was strewn with art supplies.  
"La seule chose que tes yeux ne me disent pas, c’est ton nom. It means 'the only thing your eyes don't tell me is your name.'"  
"That's almost as bad as mine." I sat back onto the bed.  
"'Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?' is the worst line I've ever heard." He laughed.  
"It's a classic."  
"It's overused." He pulled out a record and put it on the record player. He set the needle down and the sounds of jazz music filled the room.  
I closed my eyes and lost myself in thought. The bed dipped down as Cas sat beside me.  
"Je veux mettre mes mains dans tes cheveux moelleux et ma langue dans des endroits où tu ne peux que rêver. Je vous aimerai comme personne ne vous a jamais aimés auparavant et lorsque nous aurons terminé, les voisins connaîtront nos noms. Je vais te baiser jusqu'à ce que tu ne puisses pas te lever. That's how you flirt."  
"Wow. What'd you say?"  
"Things about pretty eyes and nice legs."  
"Liar. I may only be able to order food and pay my bills in French, but I can recognize that kind of talk as soon as I can see your face. What'd you really say?"  
He sighed in defeat. "I want to put my hands in your soft hair and my tongue in places where you can only dream. I will love you as no one has ever loved you before, and when we are done, the neighbors will know our names. I'll fuck you until you can't stand up."  
"Damn," I whispered. "That's a bit more than flirting, but still, damn."  
He blushed and fiddled with his hands in his lap. I stood up and gazed out the window, leaning to one side of the frame. The city's lights were lit up in golden-yellow squares of windows and circles of streetlights. Lustrous, firey, honey-colored light dotted at the skyline like a splatter of golden stars on the canvas of Paris. Cas hummed along with the music. I felt like dancing.  
"Let's dance." I turned around and gestured to the open floor space between the end of the bed and a desk.  
"I don't dance." He scuffed his shoe on the ground.  
"Sure you can, anyone can dance." I moved to the record player and changed the record to a waltz.  
"I don't know how."  
"Then I'll have to teach you." I took his hand and dragged him to the ersatz dance floor.  
I put my hand in the middle of his back and held his right hand up in mine. He put his other hand just below the collar of my shirt. I guided his feet through a waltz and spun him around the small open space. He hummed along and swayed to the music. His coat, which he had convinced me was dry enough for him to wear, swirled out behind him the way a dancer's dress would. A sand colored trail followed his steps with a swishing noise, accenting every twirl and spin. He swished his coat and knocked over a jar of brushes, and we laughed and danced over to the window. The music swelled as we circled the available space. Violins and piano enveloped my senses and suddenly we weren't in a bedroom filled with art, we were in a grand ballroom, filled with musicians and dancers. Golden lights seemed to dreamily radiate from every surface in the ballroom, and magnificent frescos on the walls danced along with the people. As the song ended with a flourish, we were brought back to reality, and I dipped him back into my arm. The hem of his trench coat brushed the floor as he let himself drape over my arm dramatically. Cas pulled himself up to brush my cheek, staring intently. I dropped my head closer to his face, noses almost touching. When I got close to Cas, just barely a half inch away from him, there was a spark. Like a spark jumping between wires, a little thread of electricity jumped between our lips. The air was static, the hair at the back of my neck stood up, his eyes danced with electric blue. When our lips met, a circuit completed. Energy seemed to reach every bit of my body. Every touch, even as light as a brush of his fingers, set off a fire in my stomach. I needed to feel his skin on mine like I needed air to breathe. If all of Paris had gone dark I wouldn't have noticed, the light from him was warm, buzzing electricity. I longed for it every second he was away. I was insatiable, and nobody else would do. I pulled off his trench coat and threw it on the floor, where it sat next to spilled paintbrushes. With one hand he hooked his fingers down the back of my pants and pulled at my tie with the other. He loosened it and pulled it over my head, tossing it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor.  
"Je ne peux pas te sortir de ma tête, tu me rends fou. Je veux sentir chaque morceau de toi. Je veux que tu mentes sur ce lit maintenant et que tu me parles sale avec la voix douce que tu utilises." He unbuttoned my shirt and I sat back on the bed.  
"Cas I want you." I tilted my head back lazily.  
"Je veux te baiser, ici, maintenant." He gracefully moved to me in a way that wasn't quite falling or sitting, just sort of moving, as if he were pulled by an unseen force.  
He knelt over me, a knee on either side of my body. I languidly rolled back onto the bed, my hands above my head like a relaxed stretch.  
"I love it when you talk like that," I whispered and ran my hands through his messy hair.  
"Like what?" He traced my jaw.  
"When you talk dirty in French. I can tell what kind of things you're saying, but I can't understand exactly. It's mysterious and sexy."  
"Comme ça? Mystérieux et sexy?"  
I whined and bit my lip. "Like that. God, I love it."  
"J'aime quand tu gémis comme ça." He purred and grinned. "Je vais embrasser chaque tache de rousseur sur votre visage"


	4. The One Time a Shitty Pick-Up Line Got Me Laid

Morning light streamed in through the windows, giving Cas a golden, angelic look. He sprawled across the bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets. I dragged my feet out of the tangle of legs and picked up a stray sheet. I wrapped myself in it. I stumbled around for a minute, looking for a coffee pot, then gave up. I gazed at Cas, blissfully asleep with the golden sun pouring over his skin. I looked for my jacket on the floor and fished around the pockets for a pack of cigarettes. I looked around the room, then found my pants and pulled my silver lighter from the back pocket. I kicked the clothes back into a lazy pile and sat down at the closest thing to a clear desk. I picked up Cas' hardly used typewriter and carefully set it in a spot without paints and pencils. I lit the cigarette and watched smoke float dreamily through the air, then started to write.  
That night had brought a host of ideas, images, and scenes. I wrote furiously, as the mental dam of writer's block began to crack, a flood of words rushed to my fingertips. In small black letters, I created colorful skylines and went night adventures, hosted wild parties and composed lively music. Dresses and suits swished around a dance floor as waiters circled with trays of colorful drinks. The sheer chaos of a party slunk into the room as I created a world of colorful debauchery.  
I prayed that the loud clicking and dinging of the typewriter wouldn't wake Cas, but soon enough, he was awake too. He strolled over to the desk and leaned down to kiss my neck.  
"Avez-vous bien dormi, mon amour?" He nipped slightly and I winced and rubbed a bruise on my neck.  
"I slept well." I tipped my head up and kissed his cheek. "And I'm also very sore, so no more biting, mon beau petit ami." I gestured to a group of bruises and marks on my neck and chest.  
"Fiiine." he mock-pouted.  
"Merci, chéri."  
He sat down at the stool in front of the easel and picked up a pencil and started to sketch. I continued to write, and after about an hour, he picked up a paintbrush and palette.  
"Mon ange, what're you painting? The city is that way." I pointed to the windows with a cigarette.  
"I'm painting you. Why else would I face away from the city?" He sighed. "Now go back to writing, you've moved too much already."  
I clicked away at the story, and he began to mix paints into various colors, matching the walls or the typewriter, then making different shades and hues for the highlights and shadows. We sat there all day, working until the sun was low in the sky. Golden oranges, rich pinks, and creamy purples began to streak across the sky, seeping in through the clouds.  
It seemed, at that moment, that if the world could cease to spin, I wouldn't have noticed a thing. We lived in our own world for that day, without a care of anything further than the light filtering through the windows. Some days, when the afternoons are particularly slow, and silence rings throughout the apartment, I let my mind slip off to that little world of our own. Just me, Cas and the sunset over Paris.


End file.
